I'm ready to leave the house for work, so I swoop down to the floor and address our dogs in my higher-pitched voice, "Bye, puppies... Maggie, sweetheart, I'll see you tonight... Rosco, my little Sugar-Boy, you be a good--"
Scott, who was making Connor's lunch in the kitchen, interjects, "Um, Honey. Rosco and I were talking the other day and he prefers not to be called 'Sugar-Boy.' He would actually prefer to be called 'Masculine Dog-King of the House.'"
"Oh? Is that so?" I smile. Ever since Maggie became more MY dog, Rosco is now more of Scott's dog.
"Yeah, and Maggie would rather be called 'Prostitute of New Orleans.'"
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